Viewpoint

Recently, my sister mentioned that I don’t respond to her texts until an hour or two after she sends them. “Probably because it’s a hipster thing to do,” she said. Hipster. That overused yet inevitable term. Even after a year of working for the Dec, I’m still not entirely sure how to best describe what we do. “We’re an alternative weekly newspaper that pays particular attention to arts and culture and expresses often satirical views” is probably most accurate, but because I’m not always as articulate as I wish I could be, I’ll often resort to some god-awful variation of “Oh yeah, we’re this sort of hipster newspaper.” An ideal description? Not in the slightest, but let’s just be real––it’s a little bit true. As much as most of us probably hate to admit it, we fit the stereotype. We wear cardigans from Goodwill and watch Wes Anderson films and listen to various bands that huddle under the absurdly large indie rock umbrella. It’s an image that’s often parodied, but I can’t help but wonder if, at one point, the preference for recycled clothing and obsession with obscure music might have carried a more distinct philosophy. I wonder if contemporary hipsters somehow fit into the historical cycle of countercultures. The beats wrote and spoke about tensions seething beneath the suburban stereotype of America in the 1950s, and their jarring literature influenced the likes of Bob Dylan and The Beatles. Hippies advocated peace and challenged gender stereotypes and sparked environmental awareness. Hell, Woodstock set the precedent for festivals such as Bonnaroo and Sasquatch–-destinations for hipster pilgrimages. But what about those hipsters? How will hipsters be remembered? Sure, The Suburbs shocked everyone by winning a Grammy last year. Yet, as catchy as “Sprawl II” might be, I can’t decide if it’s sincere, if it’s a genuine reflection of a generation desperately searching for emotion and imagination in a crass society, or if it’s just flashy indulgence, nothing more than commercialized complaining. “Sometimes I wonder if the world so small/Then we can never get away from the sprawl.” I suppose I sympathize with Arcade Fire; I can’t say I’ve never felt frustrated by manicured lawns and picket fences and the like, that I’ve never feared that all my reading and writing and musical exploring will prove futile and I’ll end up spending my life piddling around a kitchen in one if those ubiquitous suburban houses, but it’s nothing revolutionary. I still listen to the song––I still blast it when I’m driving home to Richmond and play it sou loud you’d think there’s no tomorrow––but I’ll admit it makes me feel a little ridiculous.

I won’t pretend to have a conclusive opinion regarding any possible hipster legacy (yikes that sounds pompous), because quite honestly, I don’t. I’m just rambling. Currently, I’m listening to St. Vincent and wearing skinny jeans from Urban Outfitters, a plaid flannel button-down from a thrift store, and a pair of oversized glasses that I don’t really need. I feel slightly absurd. I’m a parody. It’s not even a protest against mainstream culture anymore, because at this point the image is just another joke. Was it ever anything more that projecting an image? Disagreeing for the sake of disagreeing? Irony for the sake of irony? Maybe it’s just a passing phase?